I've been up since the literal buttcrack of dawn to cover a story, but it was a cool story, and one that I took photos of (some of which are already posted -- yahoo! photos, "regionbroad711", lookit). Homie needs a nap before she does anything else, though.

Jeez, you'd think I was knocked up or something. Good Lord. I'm NOT, but ... wow. I liked it better when they were smaller.

The mood is slightly less crabby today -- had a good time at the luau last night (although can I say getting high with your soon-to-be 26 year-old former neighbor that you used to crack upside the head for being a dillhole when you were kids? Tres surreal), got my hair pruned and touched up today and just had dinner and muy strawberry margaritas with Kaffy and her Winston, who was quite lovely and rather hot in a distinguished sort of way. Didn't get to swing home and pick up the camera, so photos of the damn ugliest Hawaiian shirt on the face of the planet (tm) are still forthcoming.

It was in my purse, and then I when I put my purse down, I heard the phone fly out in to the back seat. But then, when I went to retrieve it, it was no where to be found -- not under my seat, not in the shoebox, not in the bag in which the shoebox was, not in the pants tangled up back there (a couple pairs of pants I've been meaning to return, so relax, man), not on the seat, nothing. Still haven't found it, and probably because if I did, I would want to call the one guy and tell him stuff.

I would want to tell him that it wasn't the yelling tone his e-mail had the other day that freaked me out -- if we'd had that same conversation over the phone, I'd have never thought he was yelling at me, and don't I always tell him to write like he talks, anyway? -- but that he did it at all, and without provocation, because it felt distant, like he was trying to cut away another already tenous chord. I would want to tell him that I miss talking to him and that I wish he didn't feel all weirded out by my feelings. And that really, who the hell am I to judge any "relationship" he thinks he's got going? I mean, Christ, it's not like I don't know what "fucked up" is; at this point? I got it, thanks. Preaching to the choir. Whatever. I'm just here in my little corner living, loving, waiting for the time that maybe I won't be just a monthly stop anymore, like a period or an already-read magazine or whatever. Don't mind me. I wouldn't, however, have told him I love him.

Any of that would've made me look feel like a complete asshole -- you know, the whole "I really hate dealing with emotions, especially my own" thing I have. But I still want to know where my phone went.Oh, whatEVER.

A quick shout out to three more homies hooked in at Chez Broad: We got Amy over at Fish Out of Water, Rin over at Southern Bitch and, since I haven't figured out what she wants to be called, "Snidge" over at Snidget. Welcome to the party, y'all.

Speaking of parties, I have to pound out two assignments before Greta and I go to my oldest and dearest friend's pig roast tonight. AND I have to take Mother to lunch. Since I know y'all will want to see the damn ugliest Hawaiian shirt on the face of the planet (TM), I'll do some lovemaking and phototaking with camera (since the other lovemaking? Not so much, and I'm sure I'll be ready to share that whole mess later).

Don't you just hate it when you get up in the morning, and you know the first thing you usually do before you trudge to the can is take your meds, but then an hour later, you forget whether you did or not, because there are some days when you don't take them just because? And then you can't really take another because going to 300 mgs from 150 might put you in the brain garage or worse? Gah.

Yup, got a bit of an edge to me today; it's probably just PMDD or During-MDD or whatever we call it when our hormones go batshit, but I hate it. Oh, and Mother wants to hang out with me today. Again, I say, "Gah."

Surprise, yo! I was going to wait until my six-month anniversary on the 23rd to trot out this here new skin, but once Joelle showed me the mock-up, I totally couldn't resist. And once again, I gave her a set of retarded instructions (well, at least they were slightly less retarded than last time -- she had something to run with, at least), and then she came up with the rest. She's brilliant, and I lurve her mad genius.

And hey, if you're still digging the other skin, party on with it. It's your eyes, man. But I'm going to be digging this one for awhile.

Nice blog site and resume! I'm writing because of the toothpaste commercial you referenced. I'm trying to track down the truth regarding that toothpaste commercial you mentioned. I'm like 95% positive she says "pink in the stink." I've even closed my eyes and looked away in order to listen closely, and I'm convinced that the producers there are slipping something through for our comedic edification. Am interested if you've heard any more about it or have seen the commercial again.
Take Care,(Name withheld by request)

Who knew that, when you pour cold water in a glass bowl over a lit candle, the glass bowl would crack!?!? I should've, because I drove around with a hillbilly windshield for years on the Snowball that happened because of a crack that grew from the weather running moderately to ass-cold. But I clearly forgot, because I just cracked the oil infuser I just bought the other day, too, from one of my favorite little shops, Customs Imports in the Miller section of Gary. (I also picked up a really cool antique Chinese rice bucket that I'm using for magazines.) Damn it. Ladies, y'all know what I'm talking about, right? Anyone know where I could find another little glass bowl for it? Because I've got this awesome Aromatique mango oil that's making me very happy right now on a day that didn't necessarily start out that way. And I still haven't heard from Mer, and that bothers me, too.

But on a funner note, my column about bad dressers at the fair ran today, and that was cool. I set my sights on this woman who was not only wearing a skirt and club top, but 4-inch pink and aqua stiletto mules. I mean, who wears that to the freakin' fair!?!?! But I suppose it could be worse, like the co-worker of Kaffy's who saw a chick riding the rolly coasters at Great America without unnywears under her skirt (shudders).

I really love the paper's photo department; remember how I was complaining about having to take a new mug for this year's fair coverage? Rather than listen to me bitch about it, they just used my old photo, which still looks like me, only thinner. Yay! That makes me happy.

So, I'm not sure what this means, but a lot of my dreams, when I remember them, have me traveling somewhere out of the country. This time? It was Russia.

Ok, so I was in high school for this one, yet I looked like I do now, and for some reason, my parents were taking a two-week trip to Russia, and I invited Mer to come along. Thing was, we had a week of school to finish, so Mer and I had to fly back each day to finish (how we were doing that from Russia, I don't know, but it's my dream). So, part of the dream takes place in a hotel room, where Mer knows this dude who lives there or is staying there or whatever, and she and I want to do him. Well, he has a master key to all the hotel rooms, so he comes in, and either I was watching them or another one of our friends was watching them or something, and I'm all freaked out -- yet strangely titillated -- that the dude has a master key. And the next thing I know, I'm walking with Mother toward this HUGE church (again with the churches) -- not because of my perverted thoughts, though. Well, Mother says she has to use the washroom, and the washroom of this church was in a structure outside. She goes in and complains the whole time about whatever (like she's wont to do), and the next thing I know, Mer and I are back in class.

Anyway, so we're watching a filmstrip or something, and Mer wants to go hang out with this chick we used to hang out with, Barb, and doesn't want to go back to Russia for the week after school lets out. I get all hissified, and Mer says something like, "Well, you should've asked me before making these plans," or something similar, and then we're all walking in the dead of winter over the expressway, trying to catch a cab.

Well, Mer got off to the airport in one piece yesterday morning at -- oh, I guess it was something like 6:30-ish a.m. when I got her there, still somewhat reeling from my booze and pill-addled nightmare earlier Saturday. I'm not going to be more specific, other than to say that:

1) No, I did NOT OD on anything, but while I'm not turning into a raging pillhead, improper use of pharmaceuticals can be a damn good time;2) I did something I've never done before and thought I never would: go out on a boat drunk and without a lifepreserver. After I got over the initial terror of holding the seat for dear life, it was all Kate Winslet-stylee for me (except this time, I held onto the windshield for dear life; I don't swim very well, and I bet I really wouldn't swim well drunk); and3) In what can be described as a kind of drunken girlie hissyfit, I left Mer in a strange setting with people she didn't really know, and for that, I'm horribly, horribly sorry.

So there you go. There were no scenes out of The Accused going on or anything -- Deliverance, maybe, but nobody got hurt. I'll post more pictures later.

Another observation in Mer's sociological study of Americana: When we were in the second bar (sidenote: Xanies and Shiraz are an interesting combo -- not last night, sillies. ToNIGHT), this chick was bending over the bar, and the dude to whom she was talking promptly stuck his pointer finger in the woman's shorts-clad buttcrack. I'm not sure if this is the way men pick up women in these here parts, but that's what Meridith observed, and that's pretty gross.

[UPDATE: I should clarify that I was the one who in fact saw the Ex-Lax Dude's smooth move -- I caught it and looked away like, "Whoooaaaa," and he got this look like, "Oh, huhuhuh." But when I told Mer about it, she was horrified.]

Before I go any further, remember how I said I was glad that the unholiest of unholy unions didn't happen at my house? Um, yeah. Guess what? Adrian Zakula was naked. IN. MY. HOUSE. I get this phone call yesterday call from Mer that, while I was covering the fair, he stopped by after work, and they did it in the only room in the crib that I'VE NEVER DONE IT IN. Damn it. The cat is STILL traumatized.

Mer: Here, talk to Zook and tell me if you don't think he sounds like Tom Arnold.Zook: Heeeyyy, Rebecca, this is Zook ... blah blah blah ... I'm thinking about coming out to the Big City so I could visit CBGB's.

In the midst of attempting to charm Rebecca with drunken idle chitchat, Zook hands the phone to Opie. More drunken idle chatter ensues.

Opie: Blah blah blah ... Yeah, I work in the mill ... Blah blah blah ... Do you do anal?Rebecca: NO!Opie: Oh, Ok ... blah blah blah ... Do you sleep with girls?Rebecca:answers the question affirmatively, but further description has been omitted to protect the poor sap that did it with her.Zook (grabs the phone from Opie): Heeeey, Rebecca, it's Zook again, blah blah blah ... Jaycees ... blah blah blah ... Well, Opie and I are thinking about coming out there in the next few weeks ...Opie (thinking better of the situation): No, man. I got tickets to (anywhere but Brooklyn) that weekend.Zook: Blah blah blah ... Anyway, my lust for life has been restored ... blah blah blah ...Mer (taking the phone away from Zook): So, Rebecca -- (starts singing All the Right Moves)Opie: Hey! I love that movie! That's a great movie! It's one of my favorites.Rebecca (to Mer): So, what are the Jaycees?Mer: It's like the Elks Club.Rebecca: Oh. Those things really exist in those places?Mer: (laughing)Rebecca (with a twinge of begrudging envy): Sounds like you're having a hell of time.Mer: We gotta go.

Just as our heroes were about to hang up, the fourth shitcanned hero, Broad, stumbles out of the bar to take pictures and makes an astute observation:

Broad: Zook's got wood.Mer (checking to see if Zook did indeed have wood): He does NOT have wood!Opie: (laughs at the possibility that Zook had wood.)Rebecca: I like that phrase.

And the four shitcanned heroes stagger back into the bar, where they finish their drinks and stagger across the street to another bar, but not before Zook asks to have his nipples photographed. The other three shrieked in horror, and the situation was averted.

It is the job of a good person to be honest. To be self-aware. To deliberately explore the fault lines of your character and try desperately to not inflict suffering in this strange, ghost-ridden world of worked and fabricated objects. Sometimes the jobs of writer and good person coincide. But more often they don’t. There are way more writers in the world than there are good people.

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Broad said:
Like I said, my feelings are complicated on the matter, so ... I’m interested, however, in Her Highness’ thoughts on…
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Caterina said:
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Wholovesya? said:
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Wholovesya? said:
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Wholovesya? said:
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